


eternal

by kiyala



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-10
Updated: 2013-09-10
Packaged: 2017-12-26 05:23:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/962094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiyala/pseuds/kiyala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When they meet, Combeferre is a vampire and Courfeyrac is a human.</p>
            </blockquote>





	eternal

He's human when they meet; dark, curling hair and eyes that are bright with life. He's _alive_ ; he'll live, he'll age, he'll die, all in a space of time that feels as short as a breath to someone with eternal life. Never, in all of his countless years, has Combeferre hated his agelessness so fiercely. 

Enjolras says that they have no reason to hide who they are. Combeferre is, by nature, a more cautious man. Enjolras is lucent beauty, tempered by the age and knowledge he carries in his eyes. Combeferre does not draw attention to himself, preferring to stay somewhere in the background, behind Enjolras, supporting him or pulling him back, as necessary. He hides his fangs behind closed-mouthed smiles, his age behind the glasses he doesn't need as often as he wears them. 

Somehow, despite all of this, Courfeyrac sees him anyway. Courfeyrac sees him, pursues him, and there's something about him that makes it impossible for Combeferre to send him away. Which brings him back to his present predicament; Courfeyrac is very much alive, and Combeferre is very much _not_.

"If you think it bothers me…" Courfeyrac begins, but that's not the problem at all.

"It bothers _me_." It bothers Enjolras, too. Combeferre tries not to let that matter, with limited success.

Courfeyrac looks him in the eyes this time. "But you won't send me away."

Combeferre doesn't think he could if he tried. He loves Courfeyrac, and that love is like a slow-acting poison, eating away at them both. It will linger in Combeferre's veins long after Courfeyrac is dead, and it will be his own fault. He can't even bring himself to regret it. 

"No," he finally says. "I won't. You know I can't."

Courfeyrac smiles at him, pulling him in for a kiss. Combeferre's arms come around him, holding him close. They're sitting on Courfeyrac's bed, together in the blissful dark. Courfeyrac has shuttered his windows, adjusted his sleeping habits, made so many concessions for Combeferre. All Combeferre can do is look at his face, memorise it, and dread the day that he will no longer be able to remember it.

"I love you," Courfeyrac tells him, bringing him back to the present. He tips his head back, exposing his throat, and guides Combeferre's head to it. 

"Don't," Combeferre murmurs, already knowing that he's fighting a losing battle. "Courfeyrac."

"You need to drink," Courfeyrac tells him, "and I love how it feels. We both win."

"Courfeyrac…" he noses at the stretch of soft, warm skin. He presses his lips to it, listens to Courfeyrac's sigh. 

If he could go back and change all of this, keep himself from ever speaking to Courfeyrac, from ever tasting a single drop of his blood… Combeferre knows that he wouldn't. He tries to be good. He's not that good. He's selfish, he's greedy, and Courfeyrac delights in telling him that this makes him _human_.

The first bite always makes Courfeyrac moan softly. Combeferre remembers when he'd been afraid that it was a sound of pain, not pleasure. He knows better now, knows that he doesn't need to stop and ask before he bites again, harder this time. Courfeyrac arches against him, fingers tugging at his hair, and it's just as pleasant as the flow of blood. He doesn't need to drink much, licking at the punctures on Courfeyrac's neck until they've healed, until there isn't even a mark left behind. He kisses the skin where they once were and Courfeyrac pulls him close, lying back on his bed and bringing Combeferre down with him. He's already undoing his pants, pushing them down. 

Combeferre's hand curls around Courfeyrac's cock with practised ease. He strokes slowly, teasing, waiting for Courfeyrac's impatient little grumble. He laughs quietly, moving his hand faster. 

Courfeyrac's grip on him tightens, his mouth against Combeferre's ear as he gasps, "Yes, yesss, ah, Combeferre, why aren't you _naked_."

They try to be quiet, with Combeferre's hand clamped over Courfeyrac's mouth to muffle his moans, and as careful as Combeferre likes to think he is, he knows that when they're together like this, his entire world narrows down to Courfeyrac, and Courfeyrac alone. Nothing else matters, nothing else even _exists_ and Combeferre has never loved like this before, doubts that he'll ever love like this again. 

" _Ferre_ ," Courfeyrac cries as he comes, his fingers curling at the nape of Combeferre's neck. He strokes Combeferre to completion, pulling him down and holding onto him after, as they catch their breath.

Their hands find each other. Combeferre rests his thumb on Courfeyrac's pulse, feeling it racing through the thin layer of skin.

"I want you to turn me," Courfeyrac murmurs, once their breath has evened out and they're still lying in each other's arms. 

It isn't the first time Courfeyrac has asked. It won't be the last. Combeferre gets up, pressing a kiss to Courfeyrac's forehead and going to get a towel to clean them up. "You know I won't do that to you."

"I don't want you to leave me," Courfeyrac says, sitting up.

"I won't go anywhere," Combeferre promises him, returning to the bed. He runs the damp towel over Courfeyrac's stomach. "I'll be right beside you, for as long as you live."

"I don't want that," Courfeyrac protests. "And you don't either."

"I won't, Courfeyrac."

"You will. God knows you and Enjolras need someone to keep you from taking yourselves too seriously for the rest of eternity."

Combeferre laughs quietly, but he still shakes his head. "No, Courfeyrac."

«·»

"What was it you used to say to me?" Courfeyrac asks with a smile, settling back into Combeferre's arms.

With a quiet groan, Combeferre rests their heads together. "Don't."

"Don't what?" Courfeyrac gives him an innocent look. It's quickly replaced by a wide grin. "What have we learned, Combeferre?"

"That you need to be told _no_ more often," Combeferre mutters. He presses their lips together. "By someone who isn't me."

When Courfeyrac throws his head back with laughter, Combeferre can see his fangs. It's been three and a half centuries, and the sight still captures Combeferre's attention at times, filling him with fondness, with guilt, sometimes both. Courfeyrac catches him looking, because Courfeyrac always does.

"Stop thinking so hard," Courfeyrac says, turning in Combeferre's arms so they're facing each other. They kiss slowly, tongues sliding against each other. Combeferre loses track of how long they kiss for, but it doesn't matter. Not now, when they have all the time that they need. 

"You're pretty good at taking care of that," Combeferre tells him, when Courfeyrac pulls him in the direction of their bed. He takes his glasses off and sets them down on the bedside table before crawling on top of Courfeyrac. Three and a half centuries, and Combeferre doesn't think he'll ever tire of the way Courfeyrac's mouth tastes, sweeter than any blood.

"If you're still feeling guilty for turning me," Courfeyrac tells him in between kisses, "then I'm clearly not doing a good enough job of it. You know I regret nothing."

"You never do," Combeferre replies.

"But this," Courfeyrac says, suddenly serious. He holds Combeferre's face in both hands and looks right into his eyes. "This, more than anything, Combeferre. I've never regretted this. I love you."

Combeferre smiles, kissing Courfeyrac's forehead, the tip of his nose, his lips. "And neither have I. Love you too."


End file.
